Christmas
by ChronicMigraine007
Summary: Lord Voldemort thinks back on his previous Christmases in the orphanage on his way to the house of Hepzibah Smith to collect the locket and cup. One-shot. Complete.


**Christmas**

Lord Voldemort glared at the cheerful children on the sides of the streets singing carols and tugged his dark cloak further down to shield his face from the biting cold. The houses that lined the roads were decorated in colorful splashes of red and green light, shining brightly against their snowy white roofs and, if one squinted hard enough, families could be seen laughing in their warm homes, huddled near the fire and sharing their love.

He grimaced. Oh, how he _despised_ Christmastime.

The history behind Christmas was irrelevant, in his mind; what annoyed him the most was the _spirit_ of the thing- the utter _joy_ and _family togetherness-_ that repulsed him and made him feel isolated from the world. It went completely against his beliefs that joy, love, and happiness were rather corporeal in a sense.

Voldemort also had a dismal relationship with Christmas and the so-called " _Santa Claus_ " in the past.

 _Wool's Orphanage- 1937 (age 11)_

 _The hallways of the Orphanage were decorated with dull excuses for holiday cheer as the children inside whispered excitedly, a strange energy buzzing through the air on Christmas day. Tom Riddle sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his socks intensely and trying to make them turn from grey to black, like he did a few days ago._

' _I know I can do this. I've done this before. Why can't I control it?'_

 _He clenched his teeth together and narrowed his eyes, hunching over even more in his deep concentration, unaware of the approaching footsteps that belonged to Mrs. Cole. She removed her hand from where was fixing to tap on the door and stuck her head in the doorway instead, taking in the scene of the eleven year old focusing intently at his socks. She cleared her throat and blinked when Riddle jumped, obviously startled, and plastered a scowl on his face._

 _Mrs. Cole was disappointed, but still burning with curiosity._

" _Come, child, the Christmas stockings are filled, Santa came this year!"_

 _Riddle sneered at the doltish woman but stood anyways, making his bed and puffing out his pillow. "Santa Claus is not real. Do you take me as a fool?"_

 _She didn't answer, and Riddle made sure she was gone before heading to the restroom and combing his hair, making sure not a strand was out of place. He took his time to head downstairs and across the dimly-lit hallways and finally reached the commons. He drew himself up to his fullest height before walking into the room, his senses strained by the large, blindingly bright tree, nearly fifty stockings hanging haphazardly above the blazing fireplace, and the loud chatter of children ripping their presents open._

 _Most of the orphans got presents from families they met in the past, relatives that wouldn't, or couldn't, take them in, friends from outside the orphanage, adopted escapees from the orphanage, and from the staff there._

 _Tom Riddle got none of these. Every winter, he had to prepare himself for the humiliation of subtly searching the pile of presents under the tree to find absolutely nothing addressed to him. He thought that maybe because he didn't believe in Claus, that he was in bad standing with him, but he found when he was eight years old that this was not the case. He found when he was nine that making friends didn't accomplish anything. He found when he was ten that showing any hurt would just weaken him, so he kept his emotions inside._

 _And now at eleven, he bypassed the Christmas tree to find his stocking, trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd of boys and girls huddling to uncover their gifts. He reached his last name, Riddle, and stared at the outside._

 _The over-large sock was lumpy. He peeked inside fleetingly and a crease formed between his eyebrows. It was filled with coal._

 _Riddle let go of the stocking and backed away from it, then turned on his heel and left resolutely. Performing good actions throughout the year did no good either. Who needs material gifts anyways, when I have the gift of magic?_

 _He smiled slightly to himself on his way back to his room alone, finding comfort in his power._

And thus, Riddle nearly ten years later found himself heading to the house of Hepzibah Smith, prepared to use that power wisely. He rang the doorbell and banished the cloak, leaving him in a black suit and longer hair than he'd prefer. The house elf led him through the foyer to Smith and he plastered a charming smile on his face, bowing low over the fat lady's hand while conjuring a bouquet of flowers.

He spoke quietly, yet deliberately, in a way he knew would send her head over heels for him "I brought you flowers."

She swooned, and he knew the cup and locket were in his hands.

Oh how easy people are to manipulate.

 **This was a very spur-of-the-moment, 1:00am idea I had and I couldn't resist the urge to write it down. If you hadn't noticed, the story is based on the memory of him shown to Harry by Dumbledore around page 420 in HPHBP when Riddle was getting the locket of Slytherin and Helga's cup from Smith and altered the house elf's memory to think that he poisoned his master.**

 **I hope you enjoyed!**

 **CM007**


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